


May She Live

by Owwwwl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Fanfiction, Female Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, History, Past Lives, Reincarnated Stiles Stilinski, The two things i love most in the world:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owwwwl/pseuds/Owwwwl
Summary: Mieczyslawa “Stiles” Stilinski. Lucy Davenport. Aisling McGhee. Violetta Dupont. Susanna Burns. Mariana Lopez. Tatiana Baronova. Heidi Bakker. Tsetseg. Haankhes.The list goes on and on.When thinking through the list, she kinda feels like John Lennon: “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together."Or the one where Stiles is a girl and is reincarnated.Bon Appetit!





	May She Live

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how much interest is in a fic like this, but I got really invested in it, and like the final product.  
> I hope you do the same.  
> Good reading!
> 
> P.S. All foreign parts were done through Google Translate, so if you know the language and would like to correct anything, feel free!

Stiles was born in 1994, but her soul has been wandering around since prehistory. She had dreams as a child, of her past lives, and when she mentioned them, everyone around her would tell her what an active imagination she had. When she got older, the dreams strayed from the pirates and castles, and witches and parties and into the much darker side of history. Adults stopped telling her she had a big imagination because she stopped pretending to live her past lives. It’s kind of hard to start a game of play-pretend depicting the Holocaust, and rape, and execution, and slavery, on the playground, after all.

—————

It was the summer before sophomore year, and her best friend was a werewolf. The fact is nearly indisputable for her, for she has known many bitten werewolves throughout her lives, but she very well couldn’t tell Scott with utmost certainty of the fact. Despite the odd reincarnation thing, she is a human in the end. An ignorant seventeen-year-old human who has no idea of the monsters lurking in the dark. So she presents it to Scott as a joke, and turns off her light.

—————

_Boston, 1775_

_Lucy Davenport was married to a pig of a man. He hit her, made crude comments, forced himself atop her and supported the British. He would feast himself silly, drool dribbling down his shirt to rest atop of his belly, then have the gall to comment on the extra biscuit she grabbed. He welcomed half a dozen British soldiers to quarter in their home, has beaten slaves dead, and has shot a horse after it was not able to take his weight. Richard Davenport deserved to burn in the deepest layer of hell._

_Despite this, Lucy stood dutifully at his side as they walked down the streets, smiled slightly when Richard’s (let’s call him Dick for now) Dick’s aristocratic loyalist friends told him what a “pretty little thing” she was, and left the politics to the men. At least at her house she did._

_“I’m going for a walk,” she would tell Dick, “All this talk of war is deeply upsetting me.”_

_“Aw, darling,” he would say, making her internally gag, “I forget how fragile women can be sometimes. Try to be back by dinner, I have… plans… for us afterward.” She would nod, leave the house, and try not to throw up in the bushes. Then she would walk down the street, and wrap her shawl around her head as a makeshift veil. She would next make her way towards the harbor, and there she would meet Caspian Briggs._

_Caspian Briggs was a large man, stubbled, bright-eyed, and had a head of thick brown hair. He met her there every other Tuesday (for no one would expect anything out-of-the-ordinary happening on a Tuesday) and she would tell him what she overheard from Dick and the soldiers. In exchange, he would tell her about the supernatural world._

_Despite having contact with the supernatural before this life, Lucy had never really learned about them. And who better to learn from than a werewolf himself? Caspian would bring her to his house, and tell her all about anything she ever wanted to know._

_“The troubling thing about werewolves,” she remembers him saying during one of these escapades, “is that as well as being human, we are beast. And we need something to remind us of our humanity, to keep the beast at bay. An anchor, if you will.” She remembers him looking at her with a piercing gaze, and her cheeks reddening with the attention, “You, Lucy, are my anchor and always have been, no matter what life we are living.” They kissed then, for a time too short for their liking, but soon enough she had to get up and leave to return to Dick, trying her best to ignore his eyes on her back._

_The next week, Richard Davenport was in the papers for being tarred-and-feathered after he beat his wife, who was apparently a patriot spy, outside of their home._

_That April, Caspian fires the “shot known ‘round the world” in hopes to be shot by the enemy in battle. He is._

—————

“An anchor!” She tells Scott once he figures out that, indeed, he is a lycanthrope, “That’s what you need! Something that ties you to the human world!”

He looks at her incredulously, “And how exactly do you know this?”

She sputters for a few seconds, “Research! You know, the world wide web!” _I mean, it’s not completely a lie,_ she thinks, _I did do research to fact check after the dream._

She suddenly gets a burst of melancholy. Wherever Caspian (or Cormac, or Gregoire, or James, or Santiago, or Alexei, or Johannes, or Ganbaatar or Pa-Ankh-Enfer. Oh, the list goes on!) is, and whatever life he’s living, she hopes he’s thinking of her as she does him. They meet every few lives, and only in lucky ones they get to be together, marry, have kids. Heartache unfortunately prevails in most of the lives they spend together.

She’s already established that she’s going to spend this life without him, and his without her.

—————

Apparently Lydia is a banshee. _Lydia_ is a _banshee._ Funny enough, Stiles was always doubtful of banshee existence. She knows that somewhere in the afterlife (if there is one) her (Aisling McGhee’s) ol’ Granny Margaret is laughing her butt off while nursing a Guinness.

Granny Margaret always would tell stories of hearing the banshees’ scream in Dublin, on Easter Sunday, 1916. She would say that the sound was piercing, shrill, and that it came just a few minutes before the first gun was fired.

Seventy years later, after a move to (Free) Derry, Granny Margaret would hear the screams for a second time. Except then she was nearing a hundred years, and had children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Probably about a dozen of them were members of the IRA or INLA. By the start of ‘82, the entire dozen plus some were six feet under.

Aisling and Cormac McGhee, plus their eldest son, Gerry, were among the bodies. Gerry starved himself to death and died along Bobby Sands in the Hunger Strike of ‘81. Cormac was shot by the IRA for wanting out. And Aisling, in a string of bad luck, was shot by an RUC officer in a riot only weeks later.

Stiles vividly remembers her life as Aisling; it was just in the ‘80s, after all, but she had only just remembered Granny’s Margaret’s banshee stories as the revelation about Lydia was made. She just hopes Lydia won’t be screaming before her death this time.

She goes home that night to do “research” about banshees, and she does, for a bit. But then she gets sidetracked googling herself. Apparently Aisling McGhee has living descendants. One of which has a picture online of him posing in front of the Free Derry Corner. It’s Gerry’s grandson. She digs further into her family tree and finds something shocking. She cries.

“Lydia,” she starts the next morning at school, “Are you Irish? Because Banshees are Irish.” For a moment she wonders if she was too blunt.

“Well, I guess I must be,” says Lydia, “I always thought I was more English though.”

“English! Come on, who would want to be English when they could be Irish? There all tea-drinking imperialists, anyway. Saint Patrick’s Day! Four leaf clovers! Green! Erin go Bragh!” She knows she sounds completely ridiculous, but she feels like she needs to gain a relationship with Lydia. Lydia is, according to the internet, her great-granddaughter, after all.

—————

The Sheriff looks at Stiles with a weird look in his eye sometimes, probably remembering the odd stories she used to tell and act out as a child. She wonders that if she mentioned werewolves, and banshees, and kanimas, and kitsunes as a joke to him if he would just pass it off as an odd story and an active imagination rather than sending her off to the Eichen House. She wonders what her mother’s reaction would’ve been.

—————

They’re studying the second world war in History class and the topic of today’s lecture was how non-German forces contributed to the Holocaust. There was a lot of discussion about how the world isn’t as black and white as it seems. Stiles is completely fine with this topic until someone raises their hand and mentions the Vel d’Hiv roundup.

She quickly excuses herself to the bathroom, dashes out of the classroom, and locks herself in a bathroom stall. Then the panic attack comes.

She _can’t breathe_ all the sudden and tears flow down her cheeks and snot dribbles out of her nose and _she can’t catch her breath._ The Vel d’Hiv. Why did someone have to mention the _Vel d’Hiv?_ It wasn’t even part of the curriculum!

—————

_Paris, July 16, 1942_

_Violetta Dupont was Jewish, and that fact she was increasingly reminded of in the past few months. She wished at times that she was Catholic, or Protestant, like some of her previous lives were. But she still went to temple, she still prayed, and she still took her holy days._

_Come July, she celebrated Bastille Day with her friends and family. They drank, and partied, and sang, and watched fireworks. Separately than the non-Jews of course, but they still sang._

_Two days later, the French Police knocked on her door. They detained her, beat her and marched her shamefully down the streets to the indoor cycling stadium, the Velodrome d’Hiver._

_She spent weeks there, packed in the stadium like a sardine. There was hardly room to move or lie down, and the glass ceiling made it so, so hot. She stood in her own feces, and vomited up rotten food all down the stanky shirt she arrived in. She missed her_ maman _and her_ papa _and her_ frères et sœurs _. She missed her little brick apartment and her_ chien _, Franklin (named after the American President). She missed her_ copains _and her_ collègues _as well._

_She suddenly had a shooting stomach cramp and a moan broke its way through her throat. At this point, she was begging to die. She wasn’t afraid of death, not when she knew she’d just be reborn._

_But then she was ushered back out onto the streets. Fresh air! Room to move, to walk! They marched down the streets. Violetta was sickly and weak, but she kept her head high. She stuck her chin up and straightened her back and locked her jaw. Sure, the label of_ Juif _physically ruined her, but she wouldn’t let that affect her dignity! Then she was pushed to the ground._

_She crashed to the mud, trying her best to ignore the taunts and jeers of the nazis. Then, someone helps her up. She looks up and suddenly everything’s better because it’s_ him, _and_ he’s _there and no matter how miserable her life will get she’ll have_ him _with her._

_She saw that he was just as shocked and relieved to see her there, shamefully parading the streets of Paris._

_“Name?” he asked breathlessly, “What’s your name?”_

_“Violetta,” she says._

_“I’m Gregoire,” he says._

 

—————

She finds herself in the bathroom stall, resting her forehead against the nasty tile. She gets up, splashes water on her face, and goes back to class.

“Sorry,” she says while standing in the doorway, “I puked in the bathroom. Can I get a pass to the nurse?”

—————

The pack sits around a bonfire as a “pack bonding” activity. Isaac has lit five of his marshmallows on fire already, Scott’s nearly been thrown in the fire twice, Lydia has (luckily) disappeared a few times, and Malia has caught a rabbit, much to Stiles’s chagrin. Still, though, she was having fun.

As the fire starts to die down, so does the pack’s rowdiness. Eventually, by the time the sun was already far below the horizon, the pack is sitting around the fire in their camp chairs, talking about everything and nothing all at once.

“Stiles,” Derek starts in a rare silence, “What is with you? There’s something just a bit not right with how you react to things. And you always seem to know things about the supernatural.” The pack is still as Stiles stares him down. “Are you supernatural, Stiles?” he asks, “Do you want to tell us something?”

The silence reigns for a moment, until Scott breaks the dam, “Come on, man, way to ruin the fun.”

“But you notice it too,” Derek points out, “All of you do.” He turns to look at her once more, “Stiles…” he prompts, “what do you have to say.”  
She is internally freaking out and barely hears his question. No, she’s not supernatural, and that isn’t a lie, but there _is_ something weird with her. Does she tell the pack, or does she keep it a secret to the grave? It could help the pack, no? Or it could cause distrust. She feels her breathing go heavy and looks around at the pack. She sees how Scott (loyal, pure Scott) is about to jump in and save her from this situation. Then she realizes something: this is more than a secret, it’s a lie. She can’t not say anything.

“Well...” she starts a she feels her hands start to sweat, “There is something…” The pack is staring at her with such intensity that she regrets her decision. She clears her throat, “I, um, I’m not supernatural, per se, I’m human, but I’m, uh, not a normal one.”

“Are you like me?” Lydia gently probes, probably realizing the precarious state Stiles’s emotions are in right now, “Not part of the supernatural but connected to it?” Oddly enough the pack doesn’t seem mad that she’s been keeping a secret from them, just curious. She gets a little more confidence.

“Uh, no. I’ve just experienced the supernatural before.”

“Before, like, before I was bitten?” Scott asks, confusion evident in his voice, as well as a little bit of hurt, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“By before I mean like, well, before this, uh, this life.” She looks around at the pack’s confused and shocked faces, and begins to talk again, “Turns out, reincarnation is very much real. For some people at least, I’m not sure if it’s real for everybody. Like I know for some people it’s true, but can everyone else just not remember their past lives? Or are they not living them? It’s really confusing and I-”

“Stiles,” Jackson interjects, “as much as we enjoy hearing your inner commentary, can you explain further.”

“Oh, yeah, um… I remember my past lives, and in them I’ve interacted with the supernatural! Long story short!”

There is a few second pause, then the bomb is dropped.

“I knew there was something off about you!”

“That is so damn cool!”

“Would I recognize any of your names?”

“Is that why you do so well in History?”

“Do you remember _everything_ from the moment you’re born?

“Do you change appearance from life-to-life?”

Stiles laughs. Why was she ever scared of their reactions again? Their reactions are adorable and kind and _accepting._

“Do you want to hear a story about one of my lives?” she asks, and the pack expresses their positive response enthusiastically. “What should it be about? Give me a starter?”

“Fire!” Liam calls out, not noticing Derek’s slight wince, “I mean, we are sitting around one after all.”

“Ironically, the only life I was burnt at the stake my name was Susanna Burns. But you don’t want to hear a sad story like that, give me another idea.” She makes sure to take note of Derek’s thankful nod.

“Famous!” says Isaac, “Were you famous any life, or did you know any famous people?”

Stiles thinks for a few moments, “You know, in one life I met Christopher Columbus.” At the pack’s encouragement she continues, “My name was Mariana Lopez, and I worked as a cook in the Alcazar of Segovia, the castle of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. I was going about my day like normal in the kitchens, and then I get a weird request from a servant. Santiago, the servant, said that an honored guest requested Genoese food. Genoese! I had no idea what that was! So I ask the servant for his room, and plan to go up there and ask him himself. So I did. And there he was! Well of course, I had no idea who he was at the time, but there he was! So then I ask him what Genoese means, and he’s like, ‘Italian, it means Italian, now leave and get me some Italian food,’ not his exact words of course, so then I walk back down the kitchens and I’m like, ‘how am I gonna make Italian food, can I just give him bread? And Santiago laughs at me, he laughs! So I try to...”

She tells a ton of stories that night, and even sucks up and tells them about _him._  You know, Caspian, Cormac, Gregoire, James, Santiago, etc… She laughs and she cries and by the time the fire dies out she feels so emotionally drained that she just wants to go to bed.

When she wakes up the next morning, it feels as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and as if her head had been cleared.

—————

Children in Beacon Hills are disappearing at an alarming rate. It seems supernatural, but no one has a clue what it is. The similarities, as her father presents to her, are that they all go missing while outside, and all vanish within minutes.

She had told her father about the reincarnation thing, and the werewolf thing for that matter, and although it took him a bit, he’s accepted it. So while the pack is brainstorming possible culprits in her living room, her father is also there with the case file.

“Stiles, is there anything, you know, memory-wise that you can come up with?” he asks. Stiles sighs, she’s been thinking and remembering for hours trying to come up with something.

“I can’t remember anything!” She says, “This is so frustrating, it’s like whatever took these kids could just sprout wings and fly awa-” she suddenly stops and starts laughing. “Oh god, no. Oh god , no, it can’t be!”

—————

_Outside of St. Petersburg, Russia, 1883_

_Tatiana was old. There was no denying it. She was nearing a century, and couldn’t do anything but sit on her chair, watch the fire, and talk with her equally as old husband, Alexei._

_One of her greatest joys in life would be when her daughter, Nadia, whom they lived with, would allow her children, their grandchildren, to sit upon the rug beneath their chairs and listen to her and Alexei’s stories. Tatiana always used to tell thrilling stories about ages past, and Alexei would tell fantastical stories, of myths and folklore. Today was such a day._

_All five and Nadia’s children sat, staring wide-eyed at her and her husband. One of them, little Ivan, even tried to climb onto her lap. As Nadia rushed over to scold him about how he should be careful with his frail_ Babushka _, Tatiana stopped her in her tracks._

_“Relax,” she said, “there’s no harm. I love children.”_

_“But Mama, you’re too weak!”_

_“Let it be Nadia,” Alexei interjected from his chair. Ivan settled into her lap._

_“Hmm,” she started, “what shall you want to hear about today?”_

_A wide array of prompts are yelled out, ranging from Princesses to the Silk Road._

_Tatiana and Alexei shared an annoyed but fond look. It’s always near impossible to choose without starting an argument, but their enthusiasm made up for the fact._

_She saw Alexei lean down so his arms are resting on his knees, “Forget those, I tell you, have I ever shared the story of Baba Yaga?”_

_All of the grandchildren shook their heads._

_“You’re mother used to have nightmares about it.” She adds, “But it still used to be one of her favorites.” This piques the children’s interest even more. “I’ll leave this one to your_ Dedushka, _he always tells it better.”_

_Alexei shot her a look; he knew it’s because she was feeling particularly tired that day. “Well,” he starts, “Keep in mind what you can learn from this story, there is a lesson to be learned._

_“Yes, Dedushka,” all the children chorus._

_“Ok,” he says, “Here we go. In the woods, there is a little old hut. It looks like any other little old hut, except maybe a bit littler and older than most. In the hut lives a dastardly witch. She has dirty, scraggly hair, bony elbows, long fingernails, and crooked nose. She stinks, too.”_

_The children laugh a little at this. “Eww,” they said, “Ah, she’s ugly!”_

_Alexei continues, “Her name is Baba Yaga. The odd thing about Baba Yaga, besides her appearance, that is, is that she hated Borscht, and Ukha, and Pelmeni, and Beef Stroganoff. She thought they were revolting.”_

_Little Ivan on her lap was confused, “But how can someone in Russia hate Pelmeni?”_

_“Oh, maybe she didn’t dislike it, maybe she just preferred the taste of something else,” said Tatiana._

_“Well, perhaps in your story,” said Alexei, “but on my story she dislikes it. Anyway,” he clears his throat, “The only food she could stand,” Tatiana gave him a look, “or the food she prefers, is the flesh of little children._

_Valentina gave a startled shout, before being shushed by her siblings._

_“Baba Yaga would fly around in her mortar and pestle, which in this story could fly, and scout out for little children who wandered too far in the woods. Once she saw one, she would quickly dart back into her hut and await them. Then, the little child, who must’ve never been taught not to go into little old huts in the woods, would go into her hut. The Baba Yaga would then prepare to feast. When the child’s parents realized their child was missing they would go into the woods and see the hut. But they could never get to the hut, because once they got close, the hut would rise into the air on a pair of chicken legs!”_

_“What?"_

_“Nooo.”_

_“You’re silly,_ Dedushka. _”_

_“Really?”_

_“Wow!” Tatiana added to the exclamations, “ A pair of chicken legs? Tell us more, please!”_

_“Ok, ok.” Alexei smiles at her, pleased, “And then when the parents would run at the hut still, the house would turn around and run away, all whilst Baba Yaga prepared the child for dinner. Or lunch or breakfast, or whatever meal she wanted. And then, if the parents persisted still, the house would sprout wings and fly away to the next wood, where the Baba Yaga would hunt for her next meal. The end.”_

_“Mama, you were actually scared of that? It’s silly!” said Sasha._

_“Silly doesn’t mean unfrightening,” Nadia replied, plus, as your_ Dedushka _said in the beginning, I learned a very important lesson from this. Which is…”_

_“Don’t wander into little old huts in the woods!” shouted Ivan._

_“Or,” Tatiana said, “don’t go into the woods alone.”_

—————

“No freaking way! It's Baba Yaga!” Stiles snaps back to reality, “I thought it was just a myth!”

“The Baba what?” Isaac asks, “What is it?”

“The Baba Yaga,” Stiles clarifies, “It’s Slavic folklore. It’s basically this ugly witch that lures children she wants to eat into her hut in the woods by flying around in a mortar and pestle. And when the parents go to chase after the child, the hut sprouts chicken legs and runs away. And if the parents persist still, it sprouts wings and flies on to the next forest to hunt in.”

Someone lets out an incredulous giggle, and more than a few people scoff.

“That sounds ridiculous, are you sure it’s true?” says her father.

“Absolutely not,” she replies, “but it’s better than nothing.” Her eyes scan the disbelieving and dismayed looks on everyone’s faces. She guesses they doubt the existence of Baba Yaga. She honestly does too.

“Okay,” says Lydia, “Assuming this is real, how do we kill her? Do you remember anything about that?”

Stiles pauses, “Well, she always gets away because of the, you know, feet and wings. But she is said to have a maternal streak. Depending on her mood, she takes children in, feeds them borscht, and sends them back to her parents,” she suddenly frowns, “I’m not sure if that’s actually part of the folktale or if my parent or I made that up to prevent nightmares. Alexei always made sure to mention that the Baba Yaga hated borscht, so I’m not sure.”

“Great,” says Jackson, “We can’t even count on the ‘maternal streak.’ How do we do this?”

They eventually figure things out. Apparently the borscht thing wasn’t made up by Tatiana or one of her parents, and that the Baba Yaga actually took Tatiana in and fed her it once as a child. Stiles has no memory of this, but thanks any higher power listening that the Baba Yaga likes her. She sits down and eats borscht with her, and, in the end, Stiles convinces her to go back to Russia. “ _Net mesta luchshe doma,”_ she says, “ _there’s no place like home.”_

—————

She doesn’t know how, but for whatever reason, the news of her reincarnation reaches Melissa. The nurse wants to hear everything from her personally- all the good, bad, and dreadful. Stiles, surprisingly, tells all.

She speaks of dying, sickness, childbirth and kidnapping. She speaks of marriage, games, parties, and feasts. She talks about all of her ups and downs: the things she’s the proudest of and the things she’s the least.

Melissa just sits and patiently lends an ear, occasionally asking for clarification. By the end, Stiles is bawling her eyes out. Melissa gets up and pours her a cup of water to remedy her hiccups.

“Stiles,” she addresses her after a moment, “What you’ve been through- it's inspiring and horrible all at once, and it probably always will be, but instead of thinking back to your previous reincarnations all the time, just…” she sighs, “just think about now.”

Stiles tilts her head, a strand of hair swooping down to lay in front of her face, “How am I supposed to do that? When now is a pinprick of what I’ve lived and will live?”

“Maybe hundreds of lives from now you’ll dream of this life. And all the sudden it would mean a lot more.”

Stiles bites her lip and frowns before nodding. “I guess so.”

“Where do you want to go to college, Stiles? What do you want to do with your life? Will you consider dating, and marriage? All I’m saying is to at least put thought into it. Don’t write this up as just another life, because no life is ‘just’ anything.” Melissa gets up, grabs her car keys, and leaves.

Stiles is left alone in her dark kitchen mulling over Melissa’s words. What does she want to do with this life? She walks to her room, sits down at her desk, and fires up her computer.

It’s time to do some research.

—————

“Hey, Stiles?” says Scott one day while she’s helping him on his history homework, ”You know those psychics that claim they could tell you your past lives? Do you think they’re telling the truth?”

Stiles stops for a moment. She’s never been to one and tells Scott as much. “I should try it, though,” she says, “even if it’s completely false we’ll get a kick out of it. You should try, too. Maybe you’ll unlock memories of your past lives. Or maybe I’ll realize you were in one of mine!”

They make it a pack field trip. They all pile into their respective cars and follow each other to this dingy little side-of-the-highway psychic. They step in, pay their dues, and wait.

“This is stupid,” says Stiles looking around at the velvet drapes and dim lighting.

“You never know,” comments Lydia, “Even though it looks like a... low-budget gentlemen’s club it could be legit.”

“I doubt it,” mentions Jackson.

“I am so excited!” squeals Liam.

And then, a tall turbaned woman bursts through the drapes with a flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today you will experience the art of psychism, I will delve into your minds, your pasts, presents, futures, and I will tell you all…” She opens her eyes and dramatically turns to them. Then, in an instant, her gypsy facade crumbled and she squeaked in surprise, jumping a little. “Mieczysława Stilinski! I didn’t know you would come so soon!”

“Uhh,” Stiles looks around, puzzled, “Do I know you...?”

“Yes,” she answers without a moment’s hesitation. “Well, you do now. I am Madame Cassandra, and I have been waiting for you.”

There is an awkward silence for a minute straight, it seems. “You’ve been… waiting for me.”

“Yes, I foresaw that you’d come. You’ve lived so many lives, I have a ton of questions to ask you. And I bet you’d like to ask me some questions as well. All of you, for that matter.”

“Come, come,” she then said, ushering them into her room, “Would you like some water, tea?”

“Uh, we’re good,” says Malia, looking warily the creepy masks and old illustrations on the wall, “Can we sit?” They do.

“Madame Cassandra,” Stiles starts hesitantly, “We came here to see if you actually know anything about past lives. Assuming you do, what can you tell me about my past lives that would prove to me that you’re not laundering us and others out of money?”

“I know about _him,_ ” she says, “I know your names, too. Aisling, Violetta, Heidi, Tatiana, and Lucy, to name the five most recent. And with them, he was Cormac and Gregoire, and Johannes, and Alexei, and Caspian,” she pauses for a second, licking her lips, “For living as long as you have, you really do know nothing. So ask away.” Stiles shrugs at the pack is if to say ‘why not?’

“Is everyone reincarnated?” she asks first.

“Yes. For example, Liam here,” she dramatically gestures to him,” is on his third life, but Scott has lived nearly fifty.

“Why don’t I remember, then?” inquires Scott. He bites his lip, awaiting an answer.

“Oh, dearie, because you were not chosen to! Your friend here was chosen thousands of years ago to live again and again and again, and gain experience, and wisdom. To love and laugh and cry and scream!”

Madame pauses, takes a breath, and clears her throat. “But, you Scott McCall could gain the memories of at least one of your lives if you so please…Everyone else here can as well.”

There’s an uproar from the pack. All of them want their memories, want to see the cool lives they’ve lived. Of course they do, because, in attempts to keep things light, they only hear the happier memories from her. They don’t remember what it feels like to die, to starve, to be beaten, to be enslaved, to be raped. They don’t know, and preferably, they never will.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, and the pack quiets down, “I mean, not all lives will be happy. You’ll have to carry the baggage of dozens of lives with you. There’s no ‘forget’ button you can push when things get rough.”

“She’s right, you know,” adds Madame Cassandra.

The pack exchanges a series of looks with each other, then Scott leans forward to speak, “Stiles, we know not all of our lives were perfect, but we still want to remember them. Not only to learn, but to understand you better. You’re so distant and sad sometimes.” He sounds solemn and it breaks Stiles heart just a little bit. Is she actually distant? From her best friends?

“Yeah,’ agreed Isaac, “And I’m sure even with our memories your load will be heavier than ours. So, with experience under our belt, maybe we could help you carry the load…”

Stiles swallows and blinks back a tear, “I, uh...thanks.” She clears her throat, getting herself together “Anyway, Madame, how is this going to work?”

—————

Nearly three hours later, the entirety of the pack has remembered memories of two random lives (Two to make it fair, because Liam only has two to remember). They thank the Madame, and drive home in silence, the pack processing everything and nursing headaches.

Stiles is honestly a little concerned; she barely let Scott on his motorcycle, afraid he’d crash. The entire pack stares blankly ahead, slowly blinking. In a fleeting thought, she thinks Madame Cassandra might’ve zombified them. Or drugged them. One of the two if not a combination of both.

When they get back to the loft, Stiles goes outside and starts a bonfire. What better place to tell stories, after all? She orders several pizza pies, grabs a few liters of soda, and ushers the pack outside. She is aware that they look vaguely cult-ish, all blankly staring at the fire and mumbling things under their breath, so she goes around the front to greet the pizza delivery woman.

Stiles wants to say something to break the ice, but she’s too scared. What if they hate her now? What if they wish they could live the rest of their lives in ignorant bliss? She instead just eats a slice of pizza and shuffles nervously.

Just before Stiles is done with her slice, Malia speaks, “I was _royalty_ in one of my lives. I had to learn _etiquette_ and _manners._ It was terrible!”  
She opens the floodgates and by god, is the current strong.

“I was a firefighter,” Derek says with a small laugh.

“I was a suffragette!” excitedly shouts Lydia.

“I was an Olympian!”

“I was an actor!”

“I was a soldier!”

“I was a Hoodoo practitioner!”

“I was the _pope_!”

They all start shouting out various attributes of their lives, and Stiles can’t help but notice that Scott is looking at her funny despite participating in the banter. She asks him if there was something wrong, and if he wanted to share.

“It’s nothing Stiles, it’s just that…” he gives her a confused look, “Are you sure you haven’t met any of us in your previous lives? Because I’m pretty sure I knew you in one.”

Stiles is flabbergasted, “You knew me! No way, what was your name? What decade? What job?”

Scott thinks for a second, “It was the 1910’s, or maybe the 1900’s. My name Dave Kelly, and I was a newsboy. Your name started with an H, I think. You worked in the shirtwaist factory, you know, the one with the fire? I gave you a paper for free one time.”

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds, then remembers. “Dave Kelly! Wow, he was you, wasn’t he?”

—————

_New York, New York, March 25th, 1911_

_Heidi Bakker hadn’t had a day off of work since she was three years, seven months, two weeks, and five days old. Every day since then she’d slave away in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory for twelve plus hours a day just to scrape by at seven and a half dollars a week. Then she’d go home to her one-room apartment in the Lower East Side, cook anything she could get her hands on into a stew, feed it to her seven hungry children, mourn her dead husband, Johannes, clean, sleep, and repeat the cycle in the morning. If there was one word to describe Heidi, it’s pretty safe to say that it would be ‘exhausted.’_

_The morning of March 25 was not much different from any other morning. She got to work at 6 am, and slaved her ass off until lunch, in which they were allowed a half hour. That day, feeling particularly lucky, Heidi decided to run to the bakery across the street during a small, rare, break she had around 4:15 to pick up a pastry in which would inevitably be split into seven parts later that night._

_She rushed back to the factory, trying not to be gone too long, because her pay had the possibility of being docked. Before she made her way to the door, though, a newsboy’s voice caught her attention._

_“Extra! Extra! Read all about it: First Flight! The Wright Brothers Make Man Fly!”_

_This understandably piques her interest, so she goes over to the newsboy._

_“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “I can’t afford a paper, but that headline sure is attention-getting. Can ya just show me the article, even for a few seconds? My eldest son will be happy, yes he will; he’s a tinkerer, ya know. Says we’re livin’ in the age of technol’gy.”_

_“Age of technology, ay?” It’s here where she noticed his Scottish brogue, “What’s yer name, ma’am?”_

_Heidi is terribly confused and at this point, and just wants to make it back in time for work, but for some odd reason, she complied, “Heidi Bakker.”_

_“Okay Mrs. Bakker,” he said, “I’m Dave Kelly. I’m gonna give ya this paper for free ‘cause it’s one of ma last. Tell your lad that the future in technol’gy lies in him and not in some rich bugger for me, will ya? That bein’ an immigrant doesn’t make ya any lesser.”_

_He must’ve noticed her fading Dutch accent and assumed her son immigrated here with her, but in fact, he was born right here in Manhattan. “Thank you so much, I don’t know what to say! I know yer losin’ money. I sure will tell Malcolm, I promise! Thank you so much, Dave Kelly!” She said, a little bit in shock from his munificence._

_He handed her the paper, and the weight of it in her hands makes it seem forbidden; a widowed immigrant woman like her should not receive these generosities._

_“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Bakker. Now ya better get back to work in the factory, I have a feelin’ yer not suppos’d to be gone this long.”_

_Heidi gave a surprised yelp, realizing how long she must’ve been gone, before clutching the paper to her chest and turning around to the factory. Something stopped her from rushing in, though._

_“Uh, Dave?” she asked, grabbing his attention, “Do ya see smoke comin’ from the top floor?”_

_“Yea,” he notices, “Smell it, too.”_

_He turned to look at her, “I eat my words, Mrs. Bakker. I don’ think ya wanna go back to work.”_

_Someone else on the street noticed the smoke, and it’s not long before flames are seen licking up the side of the building. Then the first person jumps from a window- it must’ve been just a girl, maybe even younger than a teenager. The smoke burned Heidi’s eyes, but the tears are for all of her friends working in the top floor of that building, and their families who will lose a crucial income. Heidi turns around as fire engines are heard, unable to bear it any longer._

_As she tearfully made her way back to the Lower East Side and unlocked the door to her one-room apartment, she clutched a paper who’s top news will be replaced with the terrible Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire by tomorrow, she thought of that newsboy, Dave Kelly._

_The fact is as bright as day: he saved her life. If he didn’t keep her preoccupied for those few minutes she would’ve been in the top floor of the factory at 4:30, when the inferno started. “I love you all so much,” she muttered beneath her breath._

_As Malcolm and Tabitha and Randall and Lotte and Hans and Rosalie and Kerstan all gathered around her, wondering why she’s home so early, she hugged them close, bowed her head, and mumbled a quick prayer._

_That night, when the younger kids were sleeping, she went over to Malcolm and handed him the newspaper._

_“Mama,” he said, “How did you get this? You shouldn’t have wasted this money on me.”_

_“I didn’t pay any money for it,” she shushed him when he tried to interrupt, “A very nice newsboy named Dave Kelly gave it to me. For payment, I have to tell you something, so listen close.” He leaned in, curious._

_“He wants me to tell you that yer the future, Malcolm. You and yer technol’gy will change the world. And that yer just as good as men whose fam’ly has been in this country for centuries. The American future is the immigrant’s future. You’ll change the world, Malcolm, I swear ya will.”_

_He stared at Heidi for a few seconds, then the tears started to come. “Mama,” he says, “if it weren’t for you I’d have no future.”_

_He leaned into Heidi, hugging her like he did when he was a child, and burrowed his head into her bosom. “I’m gonna change the world, Mama. And it’ll be because of you. But that’s the future, what about now? Your work burnt to the ground, what’ll you do?”_

_She looked away from him, ashamed. “Your father would be so proud of you, ya know. He really would.”_

_Malcolm looked both grateful and disbelieving. “Mama,” he started, “As thankful I am of that, your avoiding my question.”_

_Heidi eyed him, her eyes betraying her inner emotion. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “I don’t know.” She thought back to Dave Kelly, and how she would be nothing but ash if it weren’t for him, “But havin’ a little less money than normal sure is better than bein’ six feet under, Malcolm. Rememb’r that.”_

_He smiles, “I don’t need to remember it, Mama. I know it as good as I know myself. I know it for Pa.”_

—————

Stiles gapes, “You saved my life, Scott! _And_ you gave me a free newspaper!”

Scott laughs, “I did! I did!”

“I wonder what happened for us to end up the same age,” Stiles muses, “I was what, thirty? And you must’ve only been around fifteen. I mean, if you died around when I did that life you would’ve been young- only in your mid-twenties.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott replies, “Sounds about right. I was run over by a train en route to Santa Fe when I was seventeen.”

He pauses for a moment, “I guess that’s why I’ve always been a bit wary around trains,” he adds bashfully.

“I understand totally, dude,” agrees Isaac, “I now know why I love Mexican food so much!” He rubs his stomach energetically, “¡Qué delicioso!”

They all giggle for what seems like hours.  

—————

The thing is, is that after the pack gained their memories of two of their past lives,

she somehow feels even more isolated.

Everyone else is still Scott, and Lydia, and Isaac, and Jackson, and Liam, and Derek. But she’s seen as more than Stiles. It makes her wonder: Is she more than Stiles? No. Sure she’s _been_ other people, but now, in this life, she is Stiles and not Aisling or Violetta or Heidi or Tatiana or Lucy or Susanna. She’s just teenager Mieczysława “Stiles” Stilinski, with an affinity for history.

The pack doesn’t seem to understand that.

—————

_326 C.E, Altai Mountains, Mongolia_

_To Tsetseng, the mountains were the epitome of freedom. The air was cold and crisp and reddened her cheeks. The sky was the best, cleanest version of cerulean and the clouds lazily drifting across it were cotton. And when she looked at an angle through the trees that was just right, she was granted with the amazing view of the rolling grassy hills of the valley below._

_She loved it up in the mountains. She loved the eagles’ mighty cry as it hunted above. She loved how fascinating it looked when you stand above them and see the mighty birds catch an updraft while circling for prey. She loved the weight of it on her arm, and how it would lean forward for a slight second before its wings would spread and it soar, soar, soar._

_She wished she were an eagle, flying far above the world below, always with a view of the mountains. But she wasn’t, so she just appreciated it while she could._

_“Tsetseng!” She heard her father call her name in the distance, “_ Ta yuu ch barisan uu?” _Have you caught anything yet?_

_Tsetseng sighed, “_ Ügüi, aav.” _No, father. She faintly heard him telling her to hurry up._

_She looked up at the perfect sky, squinting through the bright sun, her eyes searching for the faint speck of her eagle in the distance._

_She suddenly spots him, and then scrambles for higher ground. Tsetseng next calls out to him, in the primal way of her ancestors. The eagle then comes swooping in, landing peacefully, his talons gripping her arm tightly. He has the corpse of a red fox in his jaws._

_“_ Sain ajil,” _she praises,_ good job. _She runs her hand through the think red fur of the fox, thinking about the warmth it will provide come winter. She smiles and prepares to trekk back down the mountain. Before she leaves, Tsetseng glances back at the boundless sky and the valley below. Freedom, really. In its truest form._

_Ganbaatar seems to be the only one who clearly understands her wish of life as an eagle. Makes sense, for he’s known her for much longer than sixteen years they’ve been alive._

—————

Stiles is at the zoo, and loiters near the golden eagle exhibit for an unusually long time.

“You okay?” asks Derek, walking up to her.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, her mind not completely on the matter, “Beautiful birds, aren’t they? It’s the most amazing thing: When you’re so high up in the mountains that you look down, and see them catching an updraft..”

Derek then understands that this is memory related. “Must be,” he says, “How long ago?”

“Over two thousand years.”

Derek turns to look at her, dumbfounded. He had no idea how long Stiles’s soul has actually been on this earth. It’s crazy, to him, how Stiles could still remember details of her lives even when they passed over two thousand years ago.

“Over two thousand years,” Stiles repeats, “And the eagles are just as proud and as mighty now as they were…” she trails off, before speaking once more, “I hope I’m the same. Just as proud and mighty as I was millennia ago. “I hope.”

Derek has no clue what to say, but he doesn’t need to voice anything in the end, because Stiles does for her.

“Come on,” she says in a brighter manner, “Let’s head over to the otter exhibit with the rest of the pack. I have no weird nostalgic flashbacks with those. Although there was this one time where I was attacked by one. Don’t ask me how I managed to piss off an otter because I honestly have no idea.”

Derek laughs as they walk down the brick path towards the exhibit. He’s been unsure of what to think about Stiles’s reincarnation thing, but this has cemented it for him. Stiles is Stiles, no matter who she might’ve been in the past. She may have some weird quirks not known before, but it’s Stiles! Stiles is one of the most quirky people he knows!

Reflecting later, Derek establishes that Stiles is very much like an eagle: mighty and proud and powerful and sharp. He tells her so, and Stiles gets incredibly emotional.

“Thank you,” Stiles cries, “Thank you, Derek, for telling me that. I think feel a little freer now.”

—————

“Lydia, I need to tell you something.”

Despite the worrying content of the sentence, Stiles’s rushed excited tone keeps Lydia’s nervousness at bay.

“Yeah?” she responds, squishing the phone between her ear and her shoulder, “What’s up?”

“I meant to tell you this weeks ago, ever since the past lives realization thing, but it must’ve slipped my mind! I can’t believe it!

“What have you been meaning to tell me? Spit it out already!” the banshee jokes while folding her clothes.

“You’re one of my past life’s great-granddaughter!”

Lydia stops in the middle of her task, her sweater unfolding midair.

“What?”

“Your maternal grandmother, Bridgit, was one of my life’s oldest daughter! I swear!”

She finishes folding the sweater, still stunned, “Grandma Bridgit? Really? What was your name? And _his_ name, for that matter? I need proof here.” As she says this, Lydia leaves her room and rummages through the bookshelf in her basement, trying to find the old photo albums and family records.

“My name was Aisling, and his was Cormac. We had five kids. From oldest to youngest, there was Bridget, Gerry, Oisin, Caitlin, and Siobhan! Bridgit’s childhood nickname was Bridie, if you need more proof. Bridie would’ve been orphaned at twenty-seven years old, in 1981. She already had moved to America by then with your grandfather, Cillian. We lived in Derry. Oh! And you’re grand-uncle Gerry starved himself to death in the Hunger Strike of ‘81. Believe me now?”

“I- that’s all true!” Lydia is at a loss for words- everything she just said matched the album and documents down to the details.  “Does that mean I get the banshee genes from my mother’s side of the family, too? On that note, did you know my mom when she was a baby? Grandma Bridgit had her when she was only nineteen.”

“Yes and yes!” Stiles exclaims.

A laugh bubbles up from Lydia, “Wow. You’re my Great Grandma!”

Although Stiles laughs, she still corrects Lydia, “Aisling was your great-grandmother, Lydia, and she died in 1981. I’m your friend, Stiles. Who just happens to used to be Aisling.”

“Ok Stiles,” Lydia smiles, “whatever you say.”

—————

She has received a variety of questions from the pack which she had never stopped to ponder before.

For example: “Do you remember languages?”

And “How do you know it's your soulmate dude whenever you see him?”

She has to stop and think for these questions, and it’s kind of embarrassing considering she’s had millennia to think simple stuff like that through. She contemplates how despite living for so extraordinarily wrong she truly has never spent the time thinking about The Cumulative Her. How have her pasts affected her? She doesn’t have an immediate answer. Madame Cassandra was right- she really does know nothing.

—————

_Why was I chosen?_ She thinks while she lies awake at night, _Why was I chosen to remember everything?_ The question, among others, haunts her. Madame Cassandra told her that she was chosen, but by who? But why?

Religion has always been a little weird for her because she usually worships something different each life, but in terms of belief? She believes in everything she’s ever worshipped: God, and Yahweh, and Allah, and Odin, and Jupiter, and Zeus, and Ra. Maybe she was chosen by a god, to do live and die and live again. Maybe all of the gods met up and decided it collectively (that seems a little far-fetched, though, considering she can’t imagine them ever interacting with each other. Zeus and Odin together? No way, Jose).

Under the moonlight and the red glare of her clock, she eventually decides that she’s never going to know. She somehow feels peace with that, and falls asleep.

—————

_30th-century B.C.E, Egypt_

_Haankhes was the ninth child of her parents, yet the only surviving one. A pity, people would say, to have your only child be a girl. But Haankhes’s parents believed they were blessed by_ Min _with her birth, and took extraordinary measures to see she would live to child-bearing age. Haankhes’s mother most certainly wasn’t barren, for she has had eight children before Haankhes, all male too, but some died in her womb, some died during birth, and some died of illness only weeks into their lives._

_When Haankhes was born with color in her face and air in her lungs, they rejoiced. They had priestesses come and bless the child, and gifted her luxuries. And when they decided to name her, they put many hours and many many thoughts into it. Although they knew that the true power in names lied in the name given by_ Renenutet _at birth, they wanted her name to reflect her life. Her wonderful, blessing of a life. Haankhes, they named her, meaning “may she live.” And live she did._

_She would run around in the hot sands, and play games with the boys in the village. She would sit squirming on her father’s lap while he tried to teach her weaving, and would dance in the rain and in the mud when_ Tefnut _blessed them so. There was never a girl so full of life in the great nation of Egypt._

_As Haankhes grew, she mellowed out a bit, working for her family at the markets. Men who would see her would not only remark on her energy and the brightness in her eyes, but also in her alluring beauty. Some men became annoyed and turned away at her vivacity, but some became smitten._

_Haankhes grew into a fine young woman, and was married off to a fine young man named Pa-Ankh-Entef, meaning “life belongs to him.” They lived, and worked under the large blinding sun, and brought children of their own into the world. Then came the grandchildren. Even decades later, Haankhes’s grandchildren would notice that despite her age, she and Pa-Ankh-Entef seemed just as lively as they were. They would play games with the children and run across the dunes._

_And after many years, even after her dear husband had moved on, and when it was time for_ Anubis _to come for Haankhes, her beautiful son laid his hand upon her head. “May you live,” he said, “May you always have life.”_

_Then, that moment, thousands of miles away, a baby girl in Minoa opened her eyes for the first time._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, Comments, Bookmarks, and Subscriptions are always appreciated!  
> Constructive Criticism is welcome  
> Thank you for reading and have an amazing day!
> 
> P.S. If you want more, please give me some ideas! I won't be opposed to continuing this.
> 
> P.P.S. I am considering changing the Aisling part. The implication that her son and husband were members of the Irish Republican Army (the IRA), and that her son was in jail for IRA terrorist-related action, is starting to seem a little insensitive and uncharacteristic to me. I don't think Stiles would encourage terroristic actions in her child and husband, even if revolutionary. If I were to change this, her son would be in a "Guilford Four," and "Birmingham Six" type situation, where he is falsely incarcerated for an IRA-related crime he didn't commit, and maybe beaten to death there by British officers. If so, I'd have to change his name away from Gerry, because a man named Gerry Conlon was actually part of the Guilford Four. Her husband would have had the same fate as in the story, but elaborated more. He would have been in the Ra, but would be unhappy with the violence, so he wanted out and was killed for it. What are your thoughts? Please comment. Thanks for reading this behemoth of an author's note.


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